Tuesday, 29 October 2013

Nothing Changes or Pearl's a Singer.

It's nice to note that in a world of constant flux, something's never change. I find a sepia'd copy of the BA Herald, it's covering a 1938 treadle Singer sewing machine. Front page headline: " Berlusconi to renounce his media empire in favour of politics". This, in response to a colleague's fraud charges. The date is 30th July 1994.

Da-da-deet-da-dara, da-da-deet-da-dara, da-da-deet-da-dara, the incessant refrain. It never changes. A gibbous moon is illuminating the inner tent, it must be into the small hours, when the night fishers park beside the river . The doors opens and the techno thump flows out, the poles are set up and I here the plop of their baited monofilament hitting the water. The portents are there for a less than tranquil night. Whether the amped reverberations are an integral cpomponent to fishing is not obvious, what is, Argentine DNA comes with a phonic prefix. Racket. Nothing changes.

On that train trip, our lost neighbour inevitably turned out to be the chatty pensioner who's been buttonholing his way up and down the carriage since we left the town. We've resolved the issue as to why Glasgow isn't the capital of Scotland and that it's winter in the northern hemisphere, when he moves on to the next recipient. Pattermongers. Nothing changes.

We've rolled into a somnolent siesta town, nobody is up or about, the pack dogs are prone in the meager shade, occasionally snapping at the itinerant mosquitos. A torpid, smothering blanket stifles out all activity. Yet at dusk, as the dropping sun hangs opaque in the disturbed dust of racing motos, growling buses and the general business of a pueblo's life, every shop that we enter knows we were the cyclists who passed through earlier that day. We were spotted. It's ever thus. That or they saw the interview that the Navigator gave for the local TV that morning. Leaving the mini-mercado with our trove of food, we're presented with a bag of toffees. Kindnesses. Nothing changes.

In the luxuriant cool of pre-dawn, pre-mossie attack, we head out onto the road. The route stretches out long, straight and flat, the horizon lazer level. It will stay this way for the next nine days. A prostrate plain ironed out by a mass of sky. Geography. Nothing changes.

Continuity. Familiarity. Novelty. Discovery. It makes for interesting travels. Even, if today's Guardian Weekly has yet another political obituary for Sn. Berlasconi. Nothing changes.